


China Roses

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Angel Wings, Beach House, Fluff, High School, Light Angst, M/M, Older Dean Winchester, Teacher Dean Winchester, Vacation, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 09:40:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15458538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: There’s an angel on the porch.Normally, Dean Winchester wouldn’t be fazed by a stranger sitting on his porch—he rents it out during the school year to tourists looking for a beach vacation, after all—but Dean is home this time, on day four of his winter break. But this stranger isn't just any man; he has wings, huge and black and arching across the entirety of his porch, an opaque backdrop blotting out his Gulf view.





	China Roses

There’s an angel on the porch.

Normally, Dean Winchester wouldn’t be fazed by a stranger sitting on his porch—he rents it out during the school year to tourists looking for a beach vacation, after all—but Dean is home this time, on day four of his winter break. But this stranger isn't just any man; he has wings, huge and black and arching across the entirety of his porch, an opaque backdrop blotting out his Gulf view.

To his shock, it doesn’t terrify him, at least not like it should. One minute, Dean is walking out of his bedroom in pajamas and groping the kitchen for coffee, and the next, he’s staring at the back of an angel, and he’s just… sitting there. Like he belongs there, like he isn’t trespassing on a stranger’s property.

He isn’t harming anyone, though, not that Dean can tell. For a while, Dean lets him stay and makes breakfast, scrambling eggs in a pan and tossing in bacon and ham. Bread pops up from the toaster; the Mr. Coffee finishes sputtering and whines until Dean shuts it off. He slathers butter and sugar onto the toast before loading up his plate, mug in hand, and making his way to the porch.

The angel doesn't respond when Dean sits in the opposite Adirondack chair, not immediately anyway. The most he does is blink and sigh, not that Dean is paying attention. Mostly, Dean just sits there and watches the sun come up, alternating between taking bites of eggs and draining his coffee. Orlando can’t compare to this, he thinks, yawning behind his hand; Orlando never looks this beautiful, even on the nicest of days.

“I’m sorry if I’m intruding,” the angel says after Dean has taken his plate inside and returned, second cup in hand and slippers on his socked feet.

Dean looks over to him, eyes still weighted with sleep, and takes him in: blue eyes wrinkled with age, dark hair swept in every direction, trench coat ragged around the hem and his suit, dusted in sand. His tie is backwards; Dean both finds it endearing and annoying, his need to _fix it_ almost overpowering. More interesting, are the wings behind his back, pouring out from the storm shield of his coat and spilling onto the porch, solid black save for the cobalt-painted tips and pinpricks of white spread throughout.

He’s absolutely beautiful, both similar to and unlike every depiction of angels Dean has ever seen, and strangely, Dean wants to get to know him more, purely out of curiosity.

“You’re fine.” Dean shrugs and sits back in his chair, crossing one ankle over the other. “You like this weather, at least?”

“It’s pleasant,” the angel says, closing his eyes. He folds his hands in his lap, his knuckles scarred; briefly, Dean wonders about his past, if he’s ever fought another angel before, or even a human. So many questions, many of which will probably go unanswered. “I think I’d like to stay here for a while, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Or, maybe they will. “Fine with me,” Dean says, flashing a quick grin to the angel. “Any reason why you’re here, can I ask?”

The angel doesn’t answer—doesn’t even attempt to try, either. Whatever reason he’s here, he isn’t willing to tell, and Dean won’t press; he’s perfectly content to let the angel sit there at his leisure, so long as he doesn’t scare any neighbors or start trying to build a nest somewhere. Do angels even nest?

“You got a name?” Dean asks, sidestepping his earlier question.

The angel looks over to him with one eye open, lips quirking up at the edges, just the slightest. “Castiel,” he says, and goes back to reclining, the sea breeze tussling his hair.

Dean nods, mostly to himself. “Well, Castiel, I’m planning on spending the day in the water. You can… help yourself to anything inside, if you’re hungry or anything.”

“We don’t require nutrition,” Castiel says. “But thank you. I appreciate the gesture.”

Dean waves him off. “Any time. Mi casa es su casa, or whatever.”

Castiel just smiles—whether at him or at life, Dean doesn’t know. He just leaves him to his business and heads back inside, unusually chipper for a December morning. Maybe it’s just having someone to talk to that isn’t his brother over a telephone line; maybe it’s the weather.

Maybe it’s a new start.

-+-

Castiel is still there the next morning, brushing sand from his wings on the back steps. Looking at him now, with the sun rising high overhead, Dean takes in the full breadth of his wingspan, spreading all the way across the porch and spilling through the slats in the railing. How large they are, he has no clue, but some primal part of him wants to touch them, sink his fingers in, just to see how they feel.

 _Just curiosity_ , Dean reminds himself. How often will he ever get the chance to meet an angel, anyway?

“It’s supposed to rain tonight,” Dean mentions, stepping out onto the porch with a book in hand, reading glasses perched atop his nose. Castiel glances over his shoulder, blue eyes wide but inquisitive. “You sure you don’t wanna come inside?”

“If the weather gets bad enough,” Castiel shrugs, returning to his ministrations. “I like it here, though. It’s not as hot as I thought it would be.”

“Florida in December,” Dean laughs. “Can’t beat it.” He maneuvers around Castiel’s wings before falling back into one of the two chairs; righting his glasses, he turns to the book in his hands, infinitely less interesting than then angel sitting with his feet on the steps, sliding his fingers through his feathers, ridding them of yesterday’s salt and sand. “Sure you don’t need any help?” he asks offhand, fully expecting Castiel to turn him down, or to fly off altogether.

What he does, though, astonishes Dean, heart leaping into his throat. “I can’t reach some of them,” he says, shaking his wing out a bit. “You’re welcome to clean the primaries. I’ve seen you staring.”

Dean snorts, shakes his head. “Dude, I’m only human. I’ve never seen someone with wings in my life.”

“I’ve never met another human, if it’s any consolation,” Castiel says, mirthful. “You have a beautiful house.”

“Wait ‘til you see the rest of it,” Dean says with a smile.

Setting his book side, he climbs out of the chair and waits for Castiel to rearrange himself before sitting at his side, knees crossed and one of Castiel’s wings in his lap. It’s heavy, is his first thought, constructed of solid bone and muscle; yet, as he runs his fingers along the surface, he can’t help be revel in the softness of it, the warmth pulsing through the barbs and along the vanes. “You actually fly with these things?” Dean asks, and Castiel nods, more concentrated on his other wing than entertaining Dean’s potential religious experience.

Dean strokes through the feathers for a while, purely familiarizing himself with them—he may never get this chance again, after all—before he begins to see just what Castiel has been looking for for the past while. Small specks of sand dust the vanes, nothing a wet washcloth couldn’t wipe away. “Give me a second,” he says, worming his way out from underneath the wing and making his way back indoors. He comes back with two wet rags and hands one to Castiel before setting the wing across his lap again.

Castiel considers the rag briefly, spreading it open with both hands and holding it to blot out the sun. “Rub it, like this,” and Dean demonstrates, smoothing the cloth across the feathers and wiping free the sand, leaving silken blackness behind.

After that, Castiel catches on. “That’s significantly easier,” he says, petting over the wing and washing away the grime. “I normally just use my hands.”

“Probably faster too,” Dean chuckles. “Thing about beach living, you get sand in places you never expected.”

“Where are we?” Castiel asks, turning his attention to the ocean, emerald waves lapping at the shore.

Dean hums and rolls his shoulders. “Cape San Blas. My family’s owned this house for decades, and I come here when school’s out. Gotta take a break from the city sometimes, y’know?”

“It sounds stressful enough,” Castiel says. “You’re a teacher?”

“High school literature,” Dean mentions. “Been doing it for twenty years. Started coming out here about five years ago, because if I didn’t, I was starting to think I’d lose my mind.”

“It’s very peaceful here.” Castiel shakes out the wing in Dean’s grasp, the feathers sliding together, sounding faintly of falling leaves. “How long are you here for this time?”

Dean shrugs. “A week or two. My brother came over for Christmas with his family, but other than that, I’ve been here by myself.” He stops to snort, shaking his head. “You’re the first person I’ve had an adult conversation with in… God, it feels like a year. Nothing about babies or assignments or trying to tell someone why they got a bad test score. All Sammy wants to talk about is his kids and their first steps or their first snot bubble, and what am I supposed to tell him? I had to call security on Laura and Jax again, or, no one read the material and I ended up grading on a curve?”

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Castiel says. Just barely, Dean can hear the humor in his tone. “You never told me your name.”

Oh, right. Somehow, it never came up. “Dean,” he says. “Dean Winchester.”

Castiel nods, slowly, like he’s considering the name. “I’d like to go to the beach later, if you’re going,” he says, wiping the rag across the top arch of his wing. “It looks… calm.”

Dean offers him a smile before ducking his head. “Waves don’t get really big around here. You can find some really nice shells when the tide goes out.”

At that, Castiel perks up; somehow, Dean thinks they’ll get along just fine.

-+-

The storms aren’t scheduled to come in until later in the evening, but they still linger offshore for the rest of the day, a looming backdrop to an otherwise beautiful day. Dean takes Castiel out to the shore after dinner, a towel slung over his shoulder and two plastic buckets in hand. Mornings are a better time for swimming, Dean has found; the waves don't work against him, and he can spend hours wading up to his waist in the sand amongst the stingrays and fish, digging down with his toes until he pulls up sand dollars or other relics.

In the evening, the water churns with seaweed and driftwood, never pleasant to step on. “Think we’ll just look up here for now,” Dean tells Castiel, handing over a bucket. “You good with that?”

Castiel looks down into the bucket before lowering his hands, nodding along. “What are you planning to do with them?”

A shrug. Really, the most Dean has ever done with his collection is sell them to the local shops in Mexico Beach for a few pennies each; he doesn’t exactly need the money, and it beats tourists having to buy manufactured shells. The broken or holey ones, he keeps and displays inside on his mantle, if they’re large enough, or turns them into refrigerator magnets or seasonal windchimes. _I really need a hobby_ , he thinks, shaking his head. “Think I’ll make a necklace,” he says. “Try and find some scallops or some augers? They look like spikes.”

“I’ll do my best,” Castiel says, offering the barest hints of a smile.

They separate after that, Dean heading further down the beach to comb through the surf, while Castiel stays further inland, his wings dragging paths through the sand. They’ll have to clean them again later, Dean knows, but Castiel looks to be enjoying himself, occasionally bending over to pick up something and either putting it back or placing it into the bucket. Almost a childlike wonder; Dean wonders if this is truly his first time on Earth.

By the time the sun begins to sink beyond the storm clouds, Dean comes up with a few pitted conches and a handful of different colored clam shells. Castiel has about the same, some a bit more whole than Dean’s collection. Though, atop everything sits a sand dollar, about the size of Dean’s hand, bleached from baking in the sun for hours. “Do baby angels ever hear nursery rhymes?” Dean muses, picking up the shell and holding it out.

Castiel takes it, nimble fingers dancing across its white surface. “We have our own, but I suspect they’re nothing like yours.”

“Guess not,” Dean says. “See, there’s this story my mom told me as a kid, about the legend of the sand dollar, and how there’re angels inside. Shake it.” Castiel does, holding the shell to his ear as it rustles inside. “That’s its teeth, but they look like doves. She used to tell me, if you broke one open, they’d bring peace and love to the world.”

“It’s a beautiful sentiment,” Castiel says, endearing. “I’d hate to break it, though.”

“I’ve got one back at the house, if you’d wanna see it,” Dean offers, rubbing the back of his neck. “You should come in. It’s lonely outside.”

Castiel shakes his head, somewhat sheepish. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

The admission stings at first, but Dean never really expected him to say yes, either. As much as he hates to admit it, living out here is incredibly lonesome, with no one to talk to other than his neighbors if he spots them down the beach, or the cashiers when he has to drive into town. All of his friends are back in Orlando, enjoying the winter break with their families; Dean buried his parents in high school, and his brother lives across the country, teaching political science at a community college. Having someone around, human or not, has lifted his spirits and given him a reason to get up in the morning, even if it’s only been a day or two.

He’s forty-five, single, and has lived alone for most of his adult life—what Dean really wants is just for someone to talk to, to stay.

“You’re welcome whenever you’re ready,” Dean adds, sincere, patting Castiel’s shoulder. “Don’t be a stranger.”

Castiel nods, sighing through his nose. “I won’t,” he affirms. “No matter what, I’ll be here.”

-+-

The rain doesn’t let up throughout the following day, coming in off the coast in waves; the wind never really picks up, but the sky pours for hours at a time, soaking and pitting the sand with every drop. From the porch, Dean watches the surf creep closer by the hour, high tide lapping at the foot of his boardwalk and seeping into the beachgrass. Colder air moves in gradually; by nightfall, Dean deems it an extra blanket night, and drags one from the hall closet to drape on his bed.

“You’ll catch a cold,” Dean tells Castiel later, the only light outside that of his neighbor’s kitchen light through the window. Castiel looks up at him from his chair, wings slumped and sodden, just like the rest of him. “Come on. At least sit on the couch, it’s not gonna kill you.”

“I won’t fit,” Castiel says, defeated, and Dean finally understands—Castiel can’t fit his wings through the door. He really should’ve considered physics into this before he asked Castiel anything. “I haven’t ever tried to hide them.”

“There’s gotta be some way, though,” Dean balks. “Can you make them smaller or something?”

At that, Castiel gives him a look, like the thought had never even crossed his mind. Brows pinched, he looks out to the ocean one last time before standing, shaking the rain from his coat. In the faint light, Dean watches his wings shrink in size, from imposing to adorable in five seconds; formerly feet-long primaries now roughly measure at about the size of Dean’s forearm, the appendages tucked neatly behind his back, bristling in the increasing wind. “I feel like an idiot,” Castiel pouts.

Dean just offers him a subdued smile. “It happens to the best of us. C’mon, I got some clothes for you to change into. Y’know, if you wanna.”

With some maneuvering, Dean shrugs Castiel’s coat from over his shoulders, slipping his wings through the slits in the storm shield; Castiel shakes them dry, much to Dean’s amusement, dusting the rug and the couch. Dean hands him a pair of sweatpants and a shirt with the upper back cut out of it; the rest, Castiel can take care of on his own. “Bathroom’s down the hall, to the left,” he says, earning Castiel’s annoyed huff. He’ll come around, hopefully; embarrassment only lasts for so long.

While he waits for Castiel’s return, Dean retreats to his bedroom and slips his robe off, hanging it on the coat rack behind the door. His bedroom isn’t much—just a queen bed, a television and an artist’s desk—but the view is what sells the house during the spring and fall; the window overlooks the Gulf in full, giving an unobstructed view of the sunrise in the morning. That, and the beach access, as well.

Turning the bedside lamp on, Dean walks over to crack open the window, just enough to let the sound of the storm in, rain pattering on the screen. Any day, he’ll take the white noise of the weather to the oscillating fan he keeps on the floor.

“Where would you like for me to go?” Castiel asks.

Dean jolts up straighter at the sound of Castiel’s voice, sudden in the dead of night—Castiel really should walk heavier. In the doorway, Castiel stands, sweatpants pooling around his ankles yet resting firmly around his hips, collarless shirt slouched off to one side; his wings twitch at his back, a shadow of what they were before, but Dean knows given the chance, he’ll let them free once again, in their full glory.

“I have a spare bedroom,” Dean offers, rounding the bed and sitting at the foot of the mattress. “And I got books in the living room, if you want to read something.” His brain stops, but his mouth doesn't. “Or you can stay here.”

Castiel is a big fan of eye contact, Dean has discovered; probably from a life spent not fearing exactly what one expression means from another. After spending majority of his life teaching teenagers, Dean has made a profession out of defusing tense situations based on facial tics alone. Now, Castiel concentrates solely on the hardwood floor, his toes curling, spreading. “I might stay in the living room,” he says, unexpectedly shy. “For now. I’ll let you rest.”

Dean nods, a lump in his throat, palms clammy. _You should’ve known_. “G’night, Cas,” he says to Castiel’s nod.

“Goodnight, Dean.” And Castiel turns, leaving the door open a crack behind him.

In his absence, Dean shivers with the sudden cold. _For now_ , though; Castiel might come back, his heart hopes. Logically, it makes no sense, but he yearns all the same, just for someone to touch him, to ease the loneliness in his chest, the longing in his fingertips.

 _Maybe he’ll come back,_ he thinks, pulling up the blankets and sliding into bed. Shutting off the light, Dean curls onto his side, facing the window, and watches the lightning begin to roll in. _Maybe I won’t be alone_.

-+-

The power goes out somewhere around two in the morning, not that Dean exactly minds. He does, however, crawl far enough out of bed to close the window, the sill spattered in rain; some, but not enough to soak through the wood. Falling back into bed, Dean pulls the blankets over his shoulders and listens to the storm raging on, and the soft patter of Castiel’s footsteps wandering through the halls. Any other night, and Dean wouldn’t sleep so easily, the lack of noise terrifying, grating on his nerves.

Tonight, he settles into the mattress and sighs, letting the rain wash over him. The floorboards creak somewhere in the house, edging closer; in Dean’s periphery, he hears the bedroom door open enough to let someone in, then click shut. Sheets rustle with a new addition. Then, silence and two sets of breath.

 _He’s here_ , Dean’s mind supplies. His body, however, refuses to cooperate, sluggish in his response time. “C’mere,” he slurs, more or less flopping onto his other side, facing Castiel’s shoulder. Not to his shock, Castiel turns in the opposite direction of what Dean expected—to face him, foreheads pressed together in proximity, hands close enough to touch. Castiel smells nice; like he just came in from the rain, salt clinging to his skin; for all Dean knows, he might’ve been on the porch again.

Later, he’ll blame it on exhaustion, how he drapes an arm over Castiel’s waist and pulls him closer. What he’ll blame Castiel’s willingness on, he has no clue, but Castiel moves regardless, pajama-clad legs brushing against one another, toes touching. Softly, Dean feels Castiel’s breath rush against his lips, senses the flutter of Castiel’s eyelashes in the dark. Together, they breathe as one, surrounded by blankets and the warmth of shared proximity, of steady hands.

“I’m hiding,” Castiel says, soft amidst the storm. “I’m a coward.”

Incrementally, Dean opens his eyes, meeting Castiel’s wide-eyed stare. Lightning flashes; wetness soaks the corner of Castiel’s eye. “What’s wrong?” Dean asks, the air robbed from his lungs. His heart spasms, chest tight. Before him, an angel weeps, solemn and terrified.

“I’m hiding,” Castiel repeats, closing his eyes. Tears slip free and roll down his nose. “From my family. For centuries, we’ve been at war, but… There’s been rumors about a banishing. In a few days…”

“They’ll fall?” Dean guesses. Castiel nods and hides his face the best he can. “You’re trying to protect yourself.”

“I never wanted the war.” Blinking, Castiel wipes his eyes dry. “All I ever wanted was peace, but it started spreading through the Spheres. I tried to stay as long as I could, you have to understand. I didn’t want to be one of the ones cast out, and now… Because of my decision, I have no home to return to.”

After that, Castiel quiets, fisting the blankets between their chests; Dean covers his hand and waits for it slacken before curling his fingers around it, fingertips pressing into Castiel’s palm. “I’m sorry,” he says, thumbing over Castiel’s wrist. “I know it doesn’t mean much, but I really am.”

“There’s nothing either of us could’ve done,” Castiel sighs. “I just… wish the circumstances were different.”

Dean holds Castiel’s hand just a bit tighter, feeling him soften. “How so?”

“That we could’ve met here, but without this… sadness. I sense it from you too.” Freeing his hand, he places it over Dean’s heart, curling his fingers into the staggered rhythm. “You’re lonely.”

Against the pillow, Dean nods. “Tired of being alone.”

“You don’t have to be.” Even with his limited sight, Dean spots Castiel’s smile and the tear that falls. “We don’t have to be.”

“Barely know me,” Dean says through a yawn, rubbing his eyes. “You’re good company, though. Like havin’ you around.”

Castiel huffs a laugh; Dean smothers his grin in his pillow. “And I like staying here.”

“You got a home with me, any time you want it,” Dean offers. “Even when I go home next week. You don’t gotta if you don’t wanna, but… It’s an option. Don’t wanna leave you stranded down here, is all.”

“I never thought I’d follow in some of my family’s footsteps.” Palming one of his eyes, Castiel casts his gaze to the window behind Dean’s head. “Some angels have come to earth before and lived fruitful lives, but… I find myself at a loss here. I don’t know what I’m supposed to live for, now.”

“You don’t have to figure that out right now.” Dean shrugs. “You got time. Just gotta find a way to hide these things.” Dean blindly reaches behind Castiel’s back, petting along the short span of one of Castiel’s wings. “Can’t go around letting people know angels are real.”

Castiel chuckles, scooting closer. “Such a shame. You seem to like them.”

“Hell yeah,” Dean laughs. “Do angels sleep?”

“I’ve been napping on and off. I was asleep when the lightning shut off the power.”

“Well, I’ve got space here.” Patting the spot between them, Dean yawns again and closes his eyes. “Power won’t be back ‘til morning probably.”

Castiel butts their foreheads together, settling himself into the mattress. “I’ll be here.”

-+-

Castiel is a heavy sleeper, as it turns out. So heavy, that Dean finishes his morning routine of breakfast, sweeping the sand off the boardwalk, and visiting the grocery store in Mexico Beach before Castiel even bothers to drag himself out of bed, rumpled wings and all. “Rain stopped, so I got stuff for hamburgers, if you’re hungry,” Dean says from the kitchen, unloading his purchases from the plastic bags on the island. “There might be some good washups on the beach today.”

Behind his back, Castiel’s wings give a healthy flap, disturbing the dust on top of the television. Dean can’t help but laugh, and soon after, Castiel joins in. “I’d like that very much, Dean.”

Lunch consists of hamburgers and hot dogs cooked on a propane grill, under a partly cloudy sky. Dean tends to the food and cleans up after he’s finished eating—and watching Castiel take two bites of each before deciding that food, while not unappetizing, bores him—before he joins Castiel down by the shore, where the water churns deep green. No doubt with Castiel’s gaze on him, Dean strips his shirt off and tosses it further up the beach, leaving him in only his swim trunks.

Briefly, he looks over his shoulder, jerking his head in the direction of the ocean. “You wanna come in?” Dean asks him. “Roll your pants up and come on.”

Castiel waffles a bit, digging his toes into the sand while he thinks, but ultimately acquiesces, bending over to roll his sweatpants up over his knees. Dean extends a hand, palm facing the sky, and Castiel takes it, allowing Dean to pull him into the surf. Warm water sloshes around their feet, bringing with it choppy waves and seaweed, ripped free during the storm. Fish nip at their toes, something Castiel finds both annoying and entrancing.

Here, hand in hand, Dean could look at him all day.

“This is strange,” Castiel says, oddly exhilarated. From his back, he lets his wings out to their full span, the blue tips catching foam off the surface of the water. Shaking them out does no good, other than to make Dean laugh. “It’s warmer than the rain.”

“Don’t think I’ve ever felt a warm rain,” Dean says. He squeezes Castiel’s hand tighter and pulls him out further, until the waves nudge the hems of his pants. “It’s nice, though, right? In the mornings, you can see all the stingrays going through the shallows.”

Castiel nods, eyes widening. “This is all new for me,” he confesses, looking down to their feet, where the fish continue nibbling away at their soles. “I’ve lived for longer than you can even fathom, and I don’t think I’ve ever experienced the kindness that you’ve allowed me. You don’t even know me.”

“But I want to.” Stepping closer, Dean threads their fingers together, watching the flutter of Castiel’s eyelashes. If he wanted, Dean could kiss him, could taste the salt on his lips and feel the heat from his tongue. “Angel or not, you’re… I like you. I like being around you, even if we have nothing to say.”

Castiel’s smile, rare as it is, is brighter than Dean could’ve ever imagined; the corners of his eyes wrinkle, and Dean aches to smooth his fingers over the lines with his thumb. “I like you too. I may be biased as you’re the only human I’ve ever met, but I can say you’re my favorite one.”

Unbidden, Dean snorts and covers his mouth. “You’re gonna make me blush, you know that?”

“It’s a good look on you. You have lovely freckles,” Castiel says, sincere as ever, and Dean just laughs, wholehearted.

-+-

Weaving has become a hobby of Dean’s, just to give him something to do. Sometimes, he creates intricate patterns through the holes of multiple shells, forming a delicate web that he can hang up wherever he feels; mostly, in front of doors or on the backs of furniture, or even in front of mirrors. They may not be the most exciting things in the world, but he takes pride in building and deconstructing the patchworks, just to see what he’s capable of outside the classroom.

Today, Dean slides various colored beads onto a thin black cord and chases them with the broken shells he retrieved this afternoon, forming a necklace made entirely of worn clam shells and holey augers. Carefully, he holds his creation up to the light and marvels at the colors, smiling to himself. “Cas?” Dean calls from the living room, fully expecting to hear Castiel padding down the hall. Silence greets him instead, eerily quiet in an otherwise occupied home.

“Castiel?” he calls again, clutching the necklace as he walks down the hall. He finds Castiel in his bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes locked on the window and the ocean beyond. His wings tremble; the clouds churn.

Dean’s stomach sinks.

“Do you want me to close the curtains?” he asks, setting the necklace on the dresser. Castiel nods, a bit too panicked for words, his hands held in his lap.

Starting in the bedroom, Dean closes the windows and draws the curtains, until the sunset is nothing but a memory. The knot in Dean’s stomach tightens as the minutes tick on and each room fades into darkness, from not exactly knowing what Castiel senses, or if he’s seen anything to begin with. If the fall has begun, then there’s nothing either of them can do but sit and wait for the purge to end, and hope that the ones that make it to earth don’t suffer when they hit the ground.

Both curtain pulls in hand, Dean prepares to close the living room window when a glimmer catches his eye, hidden amongst the clouds. At first, he passes it off as a plane, until flames begin to spark the further it plummets—and he promptly slams the curtains shut, stomach in his throat. Castiel wasn’t lying—they really are falling.

“I can hear them,” Castiel whispers, hoarse. “They can’t swim.” Dean looks up, sucking in a breath through his nose; wringing his hands, he crosses the room, willing his heart to still, to keep himself from panicking. Of course they can’t; Dean just hopes they can float to shore. “They don’t know what’s happening to them.”

“I’m sorry.”

Covering his eyes, Dean shakes his head. Gently, Castiel pulls his hands away and replaces them with his own, drawing him in; he tastes like cherry soda, stolen while Dean wasn’t looking at dinner, and Dean loses himself in the kiss, all he can do to stay calm. In Castiel’s arms, he forgets the rest of the world, selfish as it may be. All they can do is wait out the inevitable and pick up the pieces once it’s done; if they come across any survivors in the coming days, Castiel can help right them, send them on their way—but for now, all they have is each other.

-+-

Hidden beneath Dean’s borrowed clothing, Castiel radiates warmth, from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. In bed is no exception, bared limbs tangled, mouths slotting together, less of a kiss and more just enjoying the sensation. Under his palm, Castiel’s heart beats wildly, his wings expanding and arching into the air; occasionally, Dean strokes through the feathers to feel Castiel shudder and sigh, urging Dean closer, dragging them flush.

Dean hasn’t been this hard since he was a teenager, and then some.

A voice in the back of his head screams at him to stop, to not take advantage of Castiel in his despair. The other part of him revels in it, moans when Castiel runs his fingers down Dean’s clothed spine, when Dean dovetails their legs together. _This is as far as we can go_ , Dean tells himself, repeatedly, reminding himself with every kiss, every nudge of the hip. The way Castiel looks at him, though, with reverence in his eyes, cheeks flushed and lips parted, makes him regret ever making that decision in the first place.

 _Another time_ , he thinks, raking his fingers through Castiel’s hair. Another time, and Dean can show him how it feels to be held down, to be brought to the edge and back down again, to for one moment, share the same breath, the same heartbeat.

“You’re thinking,” Castiel says, curling his hand into Dean’s nape, just beneath his shirt collar. “You desire me.”

Dean nods and leans back in, rolling Castiel onto his back. His wings flatten out, the delicate undersides bared. “Is this too soon?” he asks. “Is this the wrong time?”

“I don’t want to think about anything else right now,” Castiel says in consolation. He pets through Dean’s hair, earning a contented purr, one Dean can’t help but emit. “I can’t stand to sit around and think, about what’s—”

“I know,” Dean says between kisses, feeling Castiel shiver underneath him. “How long do you think it’ll last?”

Castiel shakes his head; Dean sneaks in a kiss to his throat, delighting in the moan Castiel provides. “Maybe a few hours,” he sighs. “It shouldn’t be much longer.”

Dean chuckles, nipping his jaw. “We got time, then.”

Rearing up, Dean pulls his Henley over his head and drags Castiel into another kiss, allowing Castiel to touch him in full, to dig his fingers into soft skin. Castiel’s shirt follows after some time, revealing tanned flesh, littered with scars and runes and markings Dean has only pictured in fantasy novels, intricate lines tattooed into his chest, resembling lifelines, but softer, more vibrant. If it were darker inside, Dean would swear they glowed.

“I’ve never done this before,” Castiel admits, in no way ashamed of this, of how his body reacts. With the back of his hand, Dean smooths down the bulge tenting Castiel’s pants, stomach twisting pleasantly when Castiel arches into him, hips following his knuckles. “I like this, though.”

Dean smothers his laughter with a kiss to Castiel’s chest; he quickly does away with the rest of Castiel’s clothing, tossing both his underwear and pants to the floor and leaving Castiel’s bare on the bedspread. Even in the limited light, he’s beautiful, every inch of him. “I’m a workaholic,” Dean says, maneuvering his way down the bed to lie between Castiel’s spread legs. “I haven’t done… this in a couple years, actually.”

“You don’t have to if you don't want to,” Castiel offers. Dean just shakes his head. “I’ve heard my siblings talk about this, but I’ve never experienced it.”

“Not even with another angel?” Dean asks.

Castiel shakes his head. “Angels don’t copulate physically. We share our essences, as we don’t exist in human form in heaven.”

For a moment, Dean considers this while kissing along the jut of Castiel’s hip. “You’ll have to tell me about it someday,” he says before making his way lower, more centered, taking Castiel in hand. At that, Castiel’s wings twitch and expand, growing to a rather sizeable length, but not nearly as large as Dean has seen them in the past; what that means, Castiel will have to explain too.

Castiel doesn’t exactly sigh as much as he does wheeze when Dean takes him into his mouth, just the tip at first, acclimating Castiel to the feeling. Gradually, Dean works him over with his tongue, suckling the head while Castiel takes him by the hair, alternating between fisting the roots and smoothing it down again. “Tell me if you don’t like it,” Dean says before swallowing him down again, and if Castiel’s groan is any indication, he won’t be stopping any time soon.

He’s always managed to lose track of time here, surrounded by the warmth of another man, both inside and out. Just because Dean doesn’t get out much doesn’t mean he doesn't fantasize, what dating might be like, how taking a stranger to bed would feel. Years pass faster than he can count, his life always caught between teaching and hiding from parents and spending time with the only family he has anymore. Majority of his relationships have ended after the third date, and his only serious commitment—Lisa, his sweetheart from high school whom he spent a good seven years with after graduation—fell apart mutually, the fire long since extinguished before they separated.

With Castiel, though, maybe that can change. It may be optimism, but whatever it is, Dean clings to it and pulls Castiel close, lets the love pour from his soul in a way he hopes Castiel can grip tight.

It doesn’t take long for Castiel to come, not with Dean’s gentle coaxing. Dean catches him before he falls, his hands on Castiel’s surging hips and Castiel’s clutching his hair, tugging. At his peak, blue light courses across the lines marking Castiel’s body, spreading through to his wings and radiating out between the feathers, lighting up his eyes; another day, Dean will watch him fall apart in full, will bask in the glory of the creature in his arms to his fullest.

Dean kisses Castiel through the aftermath, swallowing each breath and raking his nails down Castiel’s arms, his chest, drawing him back into his skin. “You get used to it,” Dean laughs while Castiel sucks in breath after breath, a smile on his lips. “You like that?”

“Very much,” Castiel says—practically a giggle—and rolls over onto his side, pulling Dean up against him. “What about you?”

“It’ll go down,” Dean says, nudging Castiel’s nose with his own. Eyes fluttering closed, Castiel kisses him once again, settling himself into the mattress. They should’ve done this under the covers; at least then, they’d be warm. Though, cuddling always has its perks. “Try to sleep? We’ll figure it out in the morning.”

“It’s early,” Castiel yawns. “I don’t need sleep.”

Dean snorts and throws an arm around Castiel’s hip. “You snored all night. I think you do, after all.”

-+-

As Castiel expected, several angels fell from dusk until well past midnight, some landing in the Gulf, others crashing across the southern United States, generally close to the coast. The ones that fell into the ocean wash ashore the following morning, alive but with their wings ripped from their bloodied backs. From the porch, Dean watches Castiel drag three angels onto the shore, one by one helping them to their feet and leading them to the boardwalk.

“It could’ve been worse,” Castiel mentions later, after the three angels—two women and a man, all terrified but with more spirit than Dean has ever seen—have settled into the guest room, chatting amongst themselves and comparing wounds. “They could’ve perished on impact.”

“That means there’s hope for the rest of them,” Dean affirms. Castiel nods from across the kitchen island, idly tinkering with the necklace in his hands, the same necklace Dean made yesterday. “Hey, you wanna put it on? I made it for you.”

Castiel’s eyes brighten, even more so when Dean rounds the island and takes the necklace, undoing the clasp. It fits perfectly around Castiel’s neck, falling just over the hem of his shirt. “Is this a courtship token?” Castiel asks with a hint of mirth, and Dean just laughs, patting both of his shoulders. “It’s wonderful, Dean.”

“I’ll teach you how to make them,” Dean adds, embracing Castiel from behind. “What’s gonna happen to the others?”

Covering Dean’s hands with his own, Castiel sways from side to side, temple resting against Dean’s. “They’re resourceful on their own,” he sighs. He slots his fingers between Dean’s, and Dean grips him back just as tightly. “They’ll find their way, as others have in the past. They’ll find others to help them, as you’ve helped me.”

“And what about you?” The question has weighed on Dean’s mind for the last few days, whether or not Castiel would actually stay. And despite Castiel’s many assurances, Dean still has his doubts, about whether or not someone would bother to stick around, especially someone so holy, so foreign to this world. “What’re you gonna do?”

Castiel mulls it over for a record time of two seconds before he answers, “I’ll stay with you.” At all once, the pressure in Dean’s heart eases, air deflating from his lungs. “You’ve taught me kindness and compassion, and I have a feeling I have more to learn from you, and from this world as a whole.”

“Good,” Dean sighs, elated. He kisses Castiel’s cheek and lingers, marveling about how easy this feels. Like this was meant to be, like after all this time, he’s finally found someone to spend the rest of his life with, for however many years he has left in him.

Like Castiel has come home to him, once and for all.

**Author's Note:**

> APPARENTLY I really need to go to the beach, because all I've written this last year has been about beaches. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this! Just let me write soft boys forever and I'll be happy. Also, my grandma has [the sand dollar poem](https://www.qualityshells.com/legend-of-the-sand-dollar.html) on her bathroom wall, so this was a nice excuse to put that in here!
> 
> Title is from the Enya song.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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